The Heartbroken Pathologist
by GabrielaHP
Summary: Molly and Sherlock deal with the fallout from the phone call in TFP and what it means for their friendship.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: I know, I know, it's been done a thousand times already, but I felt gutted after The Final Problem and just had to do my take on Sherlock and Molly after the phone call. This isn't beta read or Brit-picked (if anyone is interested in taking that on, I'd be forever grateful!). The rating is currently T but that may change as it goes on…_

 **Chapter 1**

Molly scrubbed at the tile, both hands on her rag, throwing her entire weight against the wall of the shower. It was night now, probably the middle of the night – Molly didn't know. It had been light when Sherlock had called. It had been light when the call had abruptly ended, leaving her gripping the phone with both hands, tears seeping from her closed eyes. She didn't know how long she had stood like that, long after her tea had gone cold. She was frozen there, hearing Sherlock's words replay over and over.

"I-I….I love you. I love you."

The number of times she had dreamt of hearing those words from those lips was countless. But it wasn't supposed to happen like that, over the phone, with her forcing them from his mouth as a bargain, an exchange. It cheapened them. She knew he didn't mean them and had only uttered them as a means to his own ends. Just like that bridesmaid from John and Mary's wedding.

It had seemed so long ago, hearing about that and what he had done to the woman and then what she had done in revenge. She had counted her lucky stars that day that as little as she meant to Sherlock, she at least felt assured that he would never do something like that to her. Not after his fall from Bart's roof. Since then, he had never once given her empty flattery to coerce her into a favor or used her.

But he had done today. For whatever reason - Molly's mind had gone round and round debating with herself whether it was one of his stupid games or truly for a case or more of his awkward exploration into sentiment and its motivators and outcomes – he had wrung those words from her lips.

"I-I…I love you. I love you"

Tears pricked Molly's eyes once again and she threw her rag where she knelt on the shower floor, head bent as her mind went over the events of the day unbidden once again. She took a shuddering breath in, leaning forward to rest her head on the arm that was currently pressed along the side of the tub. She allowed herself a moment of the grief that had been with her since that phone call before picking up her rag again and getting to her feet to scrub the tile.

After the numb period following the call, Molly had calmly poured the tea down the kitchen drain, thrown away the dregs of fruit and leaves, and rinsed out the kettle, leaving it for later. Her mind kept repeating Sherlock's words as she went to her linen closet, pulled out her mop bucket full of cleaning supplies, and proceeded to scrub every inch of her flat. She started in the kitchen, sanitizing the counter where she had stood listening to Sherlock's insistence that she say the three words that would break her heart. Then she had opened a spare toothbrush and used it to clean under all the knobs on the stove, the crevices of the backsplash, the corners of her kitchen window sills.

She had moved on to the living room, taking out all her books and movies and dusting them individually. She took down her blinds, spreading them on her kitchen table to clean the slats. She had vacuumed, dusted, and organized until she could find no more to do. Then she moved to her bedroom where she did the same. The bathroom was the last room and she didn't know what she would do when that was done. She couldn't possibly sleep. Her mind was still too occupied playing the conversation with Sherlock over in her head.

In her mind's ear, she tried to hear the tone of his voice and discern what possible reason he could have for calling her with that request. Why after all their years of friendship – he had said they were friends, after all – he would ask that of her.

She grunted in disgust that her mind couldn't tear itself from its thoughts, throwing down her rag once again. She looked around the room, searching for the next thing that needed her attention. Looking up, she noticed a few stray bugs in the light fixture. She went to her hall closet and grabbed the step stool. Putting it under the light, she climbed up the couple steps, and stretched her arms up to unscrew the first screw.

"Molly."

The baritone voice that had been in her head all evening broke into her thoughts, this time coming from outside her mind. She startled at the intrusion, floundering a moment with nothing to grab onto to steady herself.

The man the voice belonged to stepped forward, automatically raising his arms, one hand on her upper back and the other falling to her hip, steadying her as she caught her balance. Molly took a deep breath, refusing to turn around and look into the face of the man who hours earlier had thoroughly wrung her heart out.

"Sherlock."

Her voice was cold with a hint of tremble that she hated. She stepped down to the floor and felt him back away automatically toward the door, giving her room. She kept her back to him as she picked up the step stool, folded it, and turned slightly toward the door and tried to edge her way past him. He refused to move.

"Please move," she said quietly, still not looking at him.

"Molly," he said again, his voice taking on an urgency that reminded her of the phone call.

"Please move" she repeated.

She heard him sigh before he backed slightly out the door, stopping just outside so he was facing her as she exited the bathroom. Ignoring him, she returned the stepstool to its place in the closet before grabbing the paper towels and glass cleaner. She kept her head down to avoid his gaze as she reentered the bathroom and went to the mirror and sprayed it with cleaner. In the now distorted reflection, she saw Sherlock step behind her. This had been a mistake. She wasn't ready to see him. To see this beautiful man who now had every piece of her but had nothing to give her in return.

She tore off a swath of towels and began to wipe the cleaning residue off, carefully avoiding the reflection of the man behind her.

"Molly," Sherlock repeated for a third time. He brought his hand up, resting it on her shoulder for a moment.

"No!" Molly shouted, finally looking into the mirror directly and meeting his gaze in it. She watched Sherlock remove his hand without any other outward reaction to her outburst, keeping his eyes on hers. She struggled to get her breathing under control as she watched Sherlock's expression as he took in her appearance. He looked so sad and her instincts had her wanting to turn around and grasp his hand, reach out to let him know she was here and was his friend, whether he wanted her or not.

But she was stretched too thin. She'd put too much of herself in Sherlock for too many years. Their reflections blurred a second time as her eyes filled with tears. She put her head down, not wanting him to see how utterly wrecked she was. How completely he had broken her just hours before.

The tears kept falling and her breath started coming in great gasps. Grief overwhelmed her as she dropped the paper towel that had been clutched in her hand. Her fingers gripped the sink as she put all her weight on it, her head bent as she continued sobbing. She felt herself falling apart and brought her hands to her chest trying to hold herself together before slowly dropping to the floor and curling in on herself.

"Molly!" Sherlock's voice reached her as though he was speaking from the end of a tunnel just a second before she felt his arm wrap around her shaking shoulders. "Molly…Molly!" he said urgently again, his other hand coming up to cup her cheek, trying to turn her face to him.

Molly shook her head. Through her tears, she heaved a great breath and managed, "J-just….leave me alone, Sherlock." More sobs escaped her as she whispered her final plea, "Please."

He removed his hand from her face, but a moment later she felt his arm slide under her knees. He adjusted the grip he had on her shoulders, and she felt herself being lifted in his arms. She was vaguely aware of him carrying her out of the bathroom and a few moments later found herself being gently lowered onto her settee, where she once again curled in on herself, trying to hide her face and tears from the man who had caused them.

Molly felt the cushion dip beside her as he spoke. "Molly, I need you to calm down. Breathe," he said authoritatively. His hand came once again to rest on her shoulder while she took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself enough to convince him she was okay and he could leave. Still avoiding his eyes, she sat up a little, wiping the tears that still gathered at the corner of her eyes. "Y-you can go, Sherlock. I'm fine," she lied. She started to rise from the sofa to show him to the door, but the hand on her shoulder moved up, fingers curling forward over her shoulder to hold her in place.

"Fine or not – which, by the way, you clearly are not – there are a few things I need to take care of before I leave. The first involves letting Mycroft's men in to search your flat." Upon seeing Molly open her mouth to argue, he continued. "I can explain everything, but I need them to ensure your safety first." He looked at her expectantly, eyebrows raised as he waited her go-ahead.

She sighed, almost not even caring to ask but saying anyway, "What do you mean my safety?"

"Explaining will take too long and I am unwilling to delay guaranteeing that your flat – and thereby you – are secure. I know you have little reason to trust me, but all you need to know is that it's important that you let them in to do their search," he paused and swallowed. "Please, Molly. Trust me one more time. By the time you and I finish, you will completely understand why it's necessary."

Molly doubted that. She never completely understood anything when it came to Sherlock. But she recognized his no-nonsense tone that told her that even if she said no, somehow those men would find their way into her home.

She sighed. "Fine, but they do their work quickly and then they and you leave."

"I will insist that they vacate as soon as possible," Sherlock replied, standing and going to the door.

It didn't escape Molly's notice that Sherlock hadn't guaranteed his own eviction from her flat and mulled over how she'd deal with that problem because she knew it would inevitably be an issue. Before she got very far in her thoughts, Sherlock reentered her flat, followed by four men in black issued uniforms. Sherlock led them to the kitchen, pointing to three areas. "The cameras were located there, there, and there, but I want to check the entire flat for additional cameras or recording devices and explosives."

"Sherlock, what do you mean….", the question died on Molly's tongue as she watched the men pull three small cameras from where Sherlock had indicated. "How long have those been there?"

Sherlock ignored her and instead went to one of the men, taking the camera from him and inspecting it more closely. He murmured to himself and Molly only just caught bits and pieces, "….equipped for sound…how she must have known…" before he went silent, handed the device back to the man in black, and instructed them to continue their search.

One man continued his inspection of her kitchen, while another one came to the living room, and the third began sweeping the entry area and hall for devices. Sherlock turned and made his way down the hall with the fourth man, directing him to the bathroom and saying over his shoulder to no one in particular, "I will inspect the bedroom."

Molly was temporarily mortified at the idea of Sherlock rifling through her private things, but at that moment their earlier conversation once again made its way into her head.

"Why are you making fun of me?"

"I'm not an experiment, Sherlock."

"I can't say those words to you."

"Because it's true, Sherlock. It's always been true."

"You say it. Say it like you mean it."

She closed her eyes and she felt her mouth tighten in an attempt to quell the threat of tears that came with remembering the words she had said.

"I love you," her own whispered confession echoed in her head.

On balance, Sherlock finding her rather boring collection of pants was less embarrassing than the soul-bearing words she had said just hours before. She shook her head slightly, trying to dispel the mortification. When she opened her eyes, she looked up to find that Sherlock had returned from her room and was now standing at the end of the hallway looking at her, eyes narrowed, deducing her.

She looked away quickly and tried to wipe the emotion from her face before he could glean too much from her expression, though she couldn't help the slight shiver that went through her at his penetrating look. Sherlock rarely turned that gaze on her and it had always made her feel a bit disheartened that he apparently saw no mystery about her, nothing to focus his attention on. The closest he'd come was when he had been after Moriarty, just before his fall off Bart's roof. It was the one time she had felt like he didn't immediately understand every single bit of her. That she wasn't just laid out, all her secrets bare for him to deduce and then quickly toss away with disinterest.

She didn't feel that way now, and while his observation made her heart beat a bit faster, she was tired and unprepared to have a lengthy, difficult conversation with him about whatever he thought he'd uncovered in his perusal.

Before either of them could speak, one of the men came from behind Sherlock and spoke.

"There were no other recording devices or explosives found, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes not leaving Molly, "Not entirely unexpected. To install additional devices would have been careless and unnecessary to achieve her ends. Please also do a thorough check of the area surrounding the building as a precaution. Thank you." He took the few steps to her front door and held it open, a clear invitation for the men to leave.

 _Her?_ Molly thought, as the men filed out of her flat. There were a limited number of women in Sherlock's life – she and Mrs. Hudson were the only ones she knew of that had regular contact with Sherlock. But there were the randoms she had found out about, like that bridesmaid from John's wedding and Irene Adler, the women he'd recognized from not-her-face. Was there a new woman in his life that she was unaware of? But then why target Molly? Or perhaps it was the person behind the Moriarty video. Sherlock had assured her that Moriarty was dead and that whatever that video was, it was without a doubt not the Jim Moriarty she had invited into her flat. She could still recall the disgust with which Sherlock had said that particular sentence.

She was pulled out of her thoughts by the sound of Sherlock shutting her front door. She looked up from her position on the couch to find him watching her, that same analyzing look in his eyes as before. Once again she looked away, eyes flitting over various items in her flat before focusing on the window in the kitchen. She was surprised to see the first gray streaks of dawn already in the sky.

"You can go now, Sherlock. I'm honestly too tired to care what that was all about." He didn't respond, but she heard him take a step forward into the room, away from the door. She couldn't do this with him. As she felt him take another step closer, panic started to well up again and she started to fidget.

"Molly."

Christ, why did he have to say her name like that? She couldn't stay here with him in this silence, waiting for him to once again crush her with her own unrequited feelings. She stood and made to walk past him, but he quickly stepped in her path, his hands on her upper arms, holding her in place. She noticed belatedly that he still wore his Belstaff and her eyes moved over the dark fabric to his light shirt, usually impeccably pressed by Mrs. Hudson but now noticeably wrinkled and looking as though it had been wet at one point but had since dried. Her eyes continued their perusal without conscious thought and she took in the suit jacket that also looked worse for wear before her gaze moved to his neck and then his face. He had the beginnings of stubble, his jaw carrying a slightly shadowed look.

Her eyes continued upward, taking in his hair that was more untamed than usual. Then, without her permission, her eyes met his and she was startled at what she saw there. Sherlock, who was always so in control and had a carefully schooled expression almost all the time, looked raw. He looked the way she felt. It reminded her very much of the expression he'd had when asking for her help with Jim, only the slightly desperate expression he'd had then was replaced by exhaustion now – exhaustion she suspected went beyond how long it may have been since he last slept.

"Well, Dr. Hooper, what deductions do you have?" Sherlock interrupted her reverie, and she focused once again on his eyes, which were now slightly crinkled at the corners. One side of his mouth quirked up in a smirk.

Her defensiveness rose once again briefly before she realized he wasn't teasing – he was asking her to "see" him, as she had so many years ago in the lab at Bart's.

"You look tired – physically, but it's more than that," she paused and had a sudden realization. She blinked and looked back up into his face. "Something's happened." Her eyes shifted back and forth as she struggled to make sense of the thoughts in her head. "Or something did happen…tonight. You've taken care of it, at least for the time being, but it's not completely finished." She watched Sherlock hesitantly, waiting to see if he would reject her thoughts or confirm them.

He straightened slightly and gave her the same look he had in Bart's after she had talked about him looking sad, like he didn't know quite what to make of Molly Hooper. For the first time since that night, she felt like she once again had his full attention.

"Very good, Molly. Yes, something happened. The immediate danger is contained at the moment but there are still issues to be dealt with, which is why I am here." Sherlock paused, his eyes narrowing and head tilting to one side as he took a moment to study her. "But I see that neither of us is very well equipped to deal with those issues at the present. Am I correct?"

Leave it to Sherlock to put it so formally that they both were emotionally drained. "Yes, Sherlock," she replied. "Can we do this in the morning?" With a quick look outside at the ever-lightening sky she continued, "Or just some other time." She nearly winced at her lie - she had no intention of ever talking with Sherlock about the words she had said and made him say in return. They would be lucky to save their friendship at this point and have it ever return to the comfortable place it had been before the phone call, and she was fairly certain that him reiterating that he didn't care for her in the way she did him would ruin any friendship they might otherwise salvage.

Sherlock gave her a shrewd look, as if he knew exactly what she had been thinking. "Yes, well, if you have no objections, I will just kip here on the couch."

It took Molly a moment to respond as she wondered if she'd heard him correctly. "W-what? Sherlock, no."

"We both are in need of sleep and you are in need of an explanation of the events that have taken place. This is I believe what they call a 'win-win'".

"I don't think that's a good idea. Just go back to Baker Street and I-"

Molly was cut off by Sherlock's low, "Molly, please." Hearing him say the same words he had just said just hours ago made her feel like all the air in the room had suddenly been sucked out. She inhaled sharply, watching Sherlock to see if this was a manipulation on his part. Upon hearing her sudden breath, his eyes flickered, almost as if he was fighting a wince, before his expression settled once again into the blank look it held previously. They stood for a moment in silence before she sighed.

"Okay. I'll get you some blankets. Just a moment." She walked past him to her linen closet, grabbed a sheet, thicker blanket, and pillow, before returning to the living room.

This wasn't the first time Sherlock had stayed at her flat. He'd used it intermittently in the years they'd known each other and from the get-go it had been established that if he needed to stay, he needed the bed. Previously she had been the one using the spare sheets and blankets, so setting up the settee under Sherlock's gaze felt strange.

She finished, then turned to him and gestured to the makeshift bed, "Well, there you are. If you need tea or anything else, you know where to find it."

He nodded with a small smile, "Thank you, Molly." He began to take off his coat and she took that as her cue to leave. She padded down the hall but stopped short at the bathroom door. She'd forgotten that Sherlock's unannounced visit had interrupted her cleaning. The crumpled paper towel on the floor looked about how she felt. She grabbed it and the mop bucket of cleaning supplies to put them away. Once they had been stowed in the hall closet, she couldn't help but look back at the living room. Sherlock was standing in the living room in just his button-down, trousers, and socks watching her. She nodded slightly to him, glad that in the dim light of the hall he hopefully couldn't see the blush that rose on her cheeks, before turning to go to her bedroom.

She got dressed for bed in her comfiest and most comforting pajamas - what did it matter if Sherlock saw her in her dad's faded, oversized t-shirt and large fleece pajama pants? The true embarrassment had occurred hours ago. Plus, Sherlock had probably already deduced or confirmed by way of snooping that she owned these very pajamas. She already missed the days when her one of her bigger worries was whether Sherlock would think her silly for owning such horrid clothes. When he would roll his eyes at her awful jokes and chastise her for continuing to tell them. Those concerns seemed so petty compared to the monstrous one now ahead of her. How could she and Sherlock go on being friends? They had finally fallen into an easy friendship. Molly had gotten over her incessant stuttering and eager-to-please attitude when it came to Sherlock, finding instead a nice balance of still catering to his whims when it was important while finding her own footing with him to where he knew she wasn't the giggling schoolgirl she had been in the first years of acquaintance. He had stopped using flattery and empty words to attempt to manipulate her and seemed to actually value her as a colleague and as a friend. He was still cantankerous at times and she was still happy-go-lucky, but they had found a good rhythm that was comfortable. Even though she loved him romantically, she was able to put that aside and appreciate her love of him as a friend, and he in turn actually made her feel like she did count to him. It worked well because there was a careful avoidance of the larger issue that had weighed on their early friendship.

She was still contemplating this when she heard her door creak open. She opened her eyes and in the wan light peeking along the sides of her blackout curtains, she saw Sherlock.

"I can hear you thinking from the living room. Move over."

"What?" she asked stupidly.

"Neither of us can sleep with you in here ruminating. I said move over," he waved his hand, gesturing to the side of the bed furthest from the door.

Even in the midst of such an awkward request and uncomfortable evening, Molly almost smiled at Sherlock's imperious tone. And just as she had been doing for years, she yielded to him and slid across her sheets. He wasted no time in lifting the covers and climbing into them, facing Molly.

She knew she should close her eyes and at least try to go to sleep, but they remained stubbornly open, staring at the man who had never once in all his times staying at her flat shared her bed.

"Turn around," Sherlock said gently, though his tone left little room for argument, and he gestured for her to turn onto her left side, away from him. This time she didn't question it and just turned, her back now facing him. It would be easier to sleep without his eyes on her.

She felt very aware of his presence behind her, however, and found that despite her exhaustion, sleep still felt very far away.

"Molly, what do you need?' Sherlock's voice was soft behind her.

Did she dare? Could she give the same response to him now that he had given years ago when she had asked him that very question? She knew it was a mistake, letting him give her comfort when he was the reason she was so very raw right now. But maybe before the whole thing was complete and their relationship did change, she could take solace in this one comfort he was offering. One night of being able to pretend that everything was going to be okay before they inevitably talked and it all got blown to bits.

She let out a shaky breath. "You."

His response was immediate, and she felt one arm snake under her neck and come up to wrap around the front of her shoulders while the other wrapped itself around her waist. There was a moment of tension at the unfamiliar territory into which they had tread, but she felt his chest press up against her back and his breath stir her hair. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath in for the first time all night and letting it out slowly. It felt like her body was sinking into the mattress and all the tension that had been wracking her body all night was slowly pouring out of her. Hell, not even just the tension from this night, but the stress that had been plaguing her for the last several months. Between Mary's death, helping with Rosie as much as possible in between shifts at Bart's, and worrying about Sherlock's latest foray into drugs, Molly felt like a sponge that had been thoroughly used, wrung out, and left useless on the counter. With the tension leaving, exhaustion now made its way in and it wasn't long before Molly was drifting off to sleep.

 _To be continued. I love getting feedback, so please leave a review (especially if you like the story well enough to follow or favorite – it's great to hear actual feedback in addition to that!)_


	2. Chapter 2

_I know, I suck for not getting this out until now! I'm really very sorry for the delay on this. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed – your feedback is so valuable! Thank you also to those who followed and favorited! _

**Chapter 2**

Molly was lulled awake the next morning by the soothing sound and gentle rhythm of deep breathing. As her mind slowly came out of its sleep-induced haze, she became aware that Sherlock was still in bed with her and apparently still asleep. She realized somewhat belatedly that they hadn't moved from the position in which they'd fallen asleep and with each breath he took, she felt his chest against her back. The arm around her shoulders had fallen forward in the night and lay stretched out in front of her, but the other was still draped over her side. Her own hands itched to cover the one on her waist with her own, and she had to clench her fists in an effort to stop herself from reaching down and interlocking her fingers with his. The room was darker than when she had laid down, and the light that had been peeking through the cracks in her curtains when they had gone to sleep was now absent.

She lay in the dark, listening to Sherlock's breathing behind her. It felt like a vacation almost, lying in bed with Sherlock and just listening to him breathe deeply in his sleep, and she let herself revel in the simple joy that was this out of the ordinary moment with him. She wondered what time it was but didn't dare try turning enough to see her alarm clock on the dresser behind her. She didn't want to interrupt this peaceful moment with him, especially not knowing what this day would bring in terms of their friendship. She knew that the phone call was the result of whatever had happened to Sherlock over the course of the past 24 hours, and him even showing up to her flat wanting to explain told her that it hadn't just been the experiment he implied it to be on the phone. She was no longer so worried about the reason for the call and now much more concerned about the impacts of it regardless of the motivation behind it.

Before she could deliberate much more, from behind her she felt Sherlock take a deep breath in and his arms shifted around her. Feeling uneasy, Molly made to move off of his left arm and roll away from him to get up from the bed, but before she could get far, his arm came up once again to wrap around her shoulders and the hand at her waist tightened. Once he seemed sure she wasn't going to try to get up again, his hold relaxed slightly, though his arms still encircled her.

Molly wanted to be the first to break the silence but couldn't find words. She had thought for sure that Sherlock would bolt once he'd awoken, and the fact that he seemed not only willing but content to lay with her for no particular reason frankly baffled her. She knew it wasn't an apology for whatever the call had been - Sherlock rarely found an actual need to apologize for most things he did and even on those rare occasions that he felt an apology was warranted, his amends was straightforward, honest, and to the point.

"I see we slept the entire day away," he said, voice somewhat gravelly with sleep.

Afraid to break whatever spell had come over Sherlock that was causing him to calmly converse with Molly while lying in her bed with his arms wrapped around her, Molly just nodded. All she wanted to do was curl up in Sherlock's arms, burrow down in her covers, and enjoy this time when she could pretend that this was something more than...well, whatever it actually was.

They laid together silently for a few minutes. Molly had no idea what was going through his mind, but all she could think about was what Sherlock was thinking and whether he was regretting their night spent together. Not able to stand it any longer, she spoke.

"I'm going to the loo," she said, only half-hoping he would move his arms and let her go. Her half-wish was granted and he brought his arm out from under her and released her. She stood and made her way around the bed, carefully avoiding looking in his direction. As she exited the room and padded down the hall to the bathroom door, she heard him let out a heavy sigh.

After using the loo, she went to the kitchen. She knew the day had passed while she – they – had slept, but it was still jarring to look out her windows and see that night had fallen again.

Molly automatically reached for her canister of tea, but echoes from the previous day made her pause. She went instead to the pantry cupboard, pulling out the box of cider mix envelopes she rarely used. There were no bad memories associated with cider. God, she hoped Sherlock hadn't forever ruined tea for her.

She prepared the cup of hot liquid and turned to go to the living room but was brought up short by the sight of Sherlock standing at the entrance of the kitchen, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He watched her for a moment, his eyes flicking to the now-empty cider envelope on the counter, her tea canister, her mug, and then to her face. Despite his usual lack emotional insight, she got the impression that he not only had noticed her distinctly different choice of drink but had also divined the reason for it. He said nothing, however, as Molly continued to the living room. She took a seat on the sofa, automatically turning on the telly partly out of habit and partly to cover the oppressive sound of silence that filled the room. She stared at the screen but felt acutely aware of Sherlock moving away from the hall and into the living room, taking a seat beside her on the sofa, slightly turned in her direction with one foot propped on his other knee and one arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers drumming the fabric lightly.

It felt strange – Sherlock always made a habit of maintaining physical distance with Molly – with everyone, she supposed. They were very comfortable around each other, maneuvering around each other with ease while working in the lab and never really in each other's way the various times he had used her flat as a bolt hole, but there had always been a bit of separation between the two of them with neither entering the others' personal space. While Sherlock wasn't necessarily in what she'd call her personal bubble now, in the past she had always taken note that he never encroached on where she was sitting. Previously if she sat on the couch, he would take the chair, and she paid him the same courtesy, assuming that, as most people did, he was modeling behavior he found preferable. In fact, she couldn't ever remember a time when they had sat together like this. It threw her off and made her feel unbalanced. She knew how to deal with cantankerous, moody, irritable Sherlock. She had no idea whatsoever how to interact with the Sherlock he'd been since appearing in her flat the night before.

"I assume you have questions," Sherlock's deep voice broke into her thoughts and the background noise of the television.

Holding her mug between both hands, she turned her head, still not ready to look into his eyes and settling instead for running her gaze over his slept-in clothes. She could feel the cadence of his fingers still drumming on the back of the settee. There was a beat of silence.

"I assume there are things you think you need to tell me."

Molly was happy to turn the tables on him with the implication that this was his circus and his monkeys, so to speak, so he could be the ring master. If he wanted to delve into all this and felt the need to drag their entire friendship through the mud that was them saying those words out loud to each other, then so be it, but she didn't have to – or want to – invite it herself.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sherlock's mouth turn up, and she got the odd impression that he was…proud? She glanced at his face quickly and caught his half-smile before once again returning her gaze anywhere else.

"I have a sister."

At this, Molly's eyes flew to Sherlock's. She was saved from having to choose from the hundred questions that instantly arose at his statement by Sherlock speaking.

"She has been incarcerated in an extremely high security facility."

"Facility? Not a prison then?"

"A prison of sorts but not simply that. There is no prison or jail or hospital that could secure her – even the current one failed," Sherlock replied. He paused, brow slightly creased, before murmuring, "Human error."

Molly could only stare at Sherlock. Though he was speaking in a slightly detached, clinical way, the tightening around his eyes belied the fact that this was far from just a security issue to him. She remained silent as she watched and listened to Sherlock describe his sibling and the events of the last 24 hours.

When he detailed the second test and the moment that his condemnation of the guilty brother resulted in the death of the other two, Molly squeezed her eyes shut and reached out, blindly putting her hand on Sherlock's. At that, he turned his hand over, grasping Molly's so they were palm to palm.

He continued on, telling her about Eurus trying to force his hand in choosing either Mycroft or John to kill. Words failed her as she imagined him in that position, gun in hand, looking between his blood and his brother. There were several minutes of silence before Molly could speak.

"You sacrificed yourself, didn't you?" She felt goosebumps rise on her arms as in her mind's eye she saw Sherlock standing on the edge of Bart's, arms raised in a crucifixion pose. The image morphed into one of Sherlock standing, gun held to his head, this time with the fear of knowing there would be no way out. This wasn't an illusion or a magic trick. The brother that had conspired with him previously was now in the same room with no answers this time.

The tightening of Sherlock's hand over hers brought her back to the man sitting before her. He didn't respond to her question but rather looked at her with an expression that was answer enough.

Molly listened in horror as Sherlock detailed waking up at his childhood home, the riddle of a song Eurus had used, and the inevitable realization that she had murdered his childhood best friend. For the first time in a very long time, Molly felt like her brain was too full to be able to fully comprehend the full scope of what Sherlock was telling her. Her thoughts battled each other trying to settle on the most important things to focus on first. It explained why he had harnessed his impressive intellect into solving cases – his very first case had gone unsolved and he had been subconsciously fighting a losing battle to make up for that first case he hadn't been able to crack.

She stared for a long time at Sherlock, her mind still racing.

"Are you okay?"

"It will be. Given time, everything will be okay."

It did not escape her notice that Sherlock once again had sidestepped answering her question and that he sounded more like he was convincing himself than her. She couldn't help but wonder if his avoidance of addressing how he felt – and all the times he had neglected his emotions – had everything to do with what Eurus had done to him as a child. Her eyes focused on the man before her and she knew that even though that was probably the case, Sherlock wouldn't want to be treated like a victim – his life, habits, and entire livelihood predicated by someone else.

She nodded and let it lie. After all he had been through, pressuring him about how he was feeling would likely feel like another of his sister's psychological experiments.

The silence was broken by a knock on the door. Molly looked quickly at Sherlock, surprised to see a smile on his face. He waved her to the door and she followed his unspoken command. She opened the door to reveal a slightly older gentleman with a rugged face and long, silver hair.

"Begging pardon, miss, but Sherlock called in an order, asked it to be delivered at this time."

Before Molly could turn to verify this, she felt Sherlock step up behind her, his hand coming up to rest on the door, pulling it wide open.

"Angelo!"

Molly stepped back and watched as the man – Angelo, apparently – stepped inside and embraced Sherlock briefly, one hand coming up around Sherlock's neck. In his other hand, he held a bag, presumably of takeout.

Sherlock led him into the living room, asking him to leave it on the coffee table. Despite Angelo's insistence against it, Sherlock slipped him some money before making their way to the door. Before taking his leave, Angelo turned to Molly, holding out his hand in invitation. After Molly had put her hand in his, Angelo raised it to his lips kissing it and saying, "Angelo, miss. Pleased to meet you. Sherlock's a good one – got me out of a tight spot years ago."

Before she could hear more of the story, Sherlock appeared at her side, gesturing Angelo to the door. After it had shut behind him, Sherlock turned to Molly and motioned her to the living room.

"Angelo's an old acquaintance. I phoned him earlier to bring us some dinner. Please," he gestured again when he realized Molly hadn't moved.

Molly stepped to the couch and sat down. "And what was the tight spot?"

"Murder charge," Sherlock said absently, opening up the takeout. "Spaghetti or fettuccine?" he asked.

They divvied up the food and ate in silence, the only noise coming from the muted sounds of the telly. Molly's mind was still trying to process everything she had heard and the implications for Sherlock. What would he be like now, having realized the trauma in his childhood? What would his relationship with his sister be – would he even have a relationship with her? Would she ever get better? What would this mean for Mycroft and Sherlock's already bizarre relationship?

Her blood boiled at what Mycroft had done – sold his brother for national security and prostituted his sister in the process. Not well enough to allow her interaction with anyone, he had instead permitted his own contact with her for his own gain. Molly had thought it was bad enough when Sherlock had explained to her the lengths to which Mycroft was willing to go with regard to Jim Moriarty back when it had resulted in Sherlock taking a header off Bart's roof and disrupting his life for two years. But that had all been with Sherlock's permission and inclusion. It made her lose her appetite to think of the actions he had taken at the expense of his family.

She put her spaghetti down but before she could say anything, Sherlock spoke. "Eat, Molly. Whatever is on your mind can wait until we are done with our food."

She huffed, ready to give Sherlock a piece of her mind but he once again interrupted her unspoken thought, "You haven't eaten in over 24 hours." He fixed her with a hard stare until she once again picked up her dinner.

After taking his final bite, Sherlock put down his now-empty takeout container. He steepled his hands under his chin and reclined into the back of the sofa, his eyes staring blankly ahead. Molly continued to eat in silence, letting Sherlock escape to his mind palace, and she wondered if this was the first chance he'd had to really sort through all that had happened. Her mind instantly went to their phone conversation.

" _I-I…I love you. I love you."_

She wondered how he was sorting that information. Would it wind up tucked away in some dark, dingy corner where he had no cause to draw it to the forefront? Or would he delete it altogether? He hadn't explained where his phone call to her fit into the entire scenario that had played out with his sister. She was pulled from her thoughts by Sherlock taking the takeout container from her hands and setting it on the coffee table with his. He picked up the remote and turned off the television, then turned towards Molly and for the first time that night seemed nervous.

"There weren't just the three scenarios – the three tests. Eurus had another. After watching the Garridebs fall to the water, we were ushered into another room. There was a TV screen on the wall, a camera on the ceiling, and, in the middle of the room, a coffin."

Sherlock paused and Molly couldn't help but whisper, "Whose?"

"It was empty. Eurus instructed me to talk out my deductions and that she would apply context. It was a small coffin, clearly for a petite woman. Very simple – plain wood with little ornamentation. Inexpensive polyester lining. It was for someone who doesn't have family to help take cover of funeral costs – no spouse, no close relatives." He paused and looked at Molly, who was running the criteria through her mind with a furrowed brow.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

He shook his head slowly. "You, Molly," Sherlock said gently, his eyes not leaving hers. "The coffin was yours."

Molly felt her face go slack as she registered what he was saying and dimly was aware of him once again taking her hand in his.

"Eurus showed video feed from your flat. She said there were explosives that she would detonate in three minutes if you didn't say the release code."

Her hand gripped Sherlock's unconsciously. "The phone call."

He nodded silently. After a moment, he continued, "I wasn't to tell you of our situation or make you aware that it was anything outside of a normal conversation. I had to get you to say-" Sherlock cut off upon hearing Molly's sharp intake of breath. "-those words before the time ran out."

Molly interrupted before he could say more. She felt they were dangerously close to opening the door on a discussion that could only mean bad things for any possibility of them continuing as friends. "Sherlock, it's okay – I understand enough. I don't need to know any more."

Sherlock leaned forward, looking intent. "No, Molly, you don't understand-"

"No, really, Sherlock, I do. And it's okay. There won't be any hard feelings-"

"Don't you see, Molly?" Sherlock interrupted fervently. "Don't you see how ingenious it is? How clever? She knew, before you and I ever talked that day, how that conversation would end. Her mind took all the pieces it had gathered and formed it into a prediction of how her game would play out. And she was correct."

Molly couldn't control her voice raising, "So she knew that it would break me? That was her point?"

"No! She knew it would break _me_!" Sherlock said vehemently, staring into Molly's eyes, willing her to comprehend.

"I don't understand, Sherlock," Molly replied, near tears. Had Eurus counted on Sherlock being so ignorant of her loving him that when he actually heard it out loud, it would forever change and possibly ruin their friendship? But how did it break him? He had to know nothing would change in terms of their professional interactions - he would still have access to the lab, she would still be same old reliable Molly, there to carry autopsies at a moment's notice, help him with his experiments, and generally be there for what he needed. Nothing changed for him while everything changed for her. How would she work by him knowing that those words had finally been said? That she had finally copped to what everyone else around Sherlock already knew, had known for years? She loved him without condition and in spite of his rude remarks and dismissive actions. She had accepted long ago that she would never mean as much to Sherlock as he did to her, but wasn't that part of loving someone? Making sacrifices? Putting someone else's needs ahead of your own? Molly loved Sherlock, yes. But she knew Sherlock would never be ready to hear those words from her, let alone say them back. And that was what she worried had irrevocably changed things for them now. Those words had been said, without being welcomed willingly by him or indeed given willingly by her. And having been said, she couldn't unsay them and neither could he. They couldn't make the words unheard by the other.

"Eurus had that conversation with Moriarty five years ago. Since that time, she learned as much about me as she could – through Moriarty, through news stories about me, John's blog, and finally through her own eyes as she escaped. She was there the day I asked you to come to do a physical examination of me. I don't yet know when she did it, but she had watched you through the cameras she installed in your house. Eurus is a true genius, and she had five years to watch my life and learn as much as she could. It was not difficult for her to glean enough insights into my life to do her damage."

Sherlock paused, his mouth tightening briefly before continuing. "The phone call to you was not just an experiment for Eurus. It was meant as a lesson for me. The area in which Eurus differs most greatly from myself and Mycroft in terms of her intellect is that she is smart enough to read people and comprehend emotions better than he or I. We can take facts and figures and patterns to make logical connections, but when it comes to emotion, Mycroft especially has never had the patience or the desire to dissect them and gain understanding. Eurus did."

Molly stared at Sherlock for a moment, thinking over what he had just said. "So she wanted you to do the same? To sort of push you to use your intellect in that way?"

He shook his head once. "No. She knew that I wouldn't ever think of things in that way, but she also knew from her experience with me as a child that I was highly emotional, unlike Mycroft. Her lesson wasn't to get to me to use emotion, it was to break me with it and then show me. I had escaped it when I was younger by rewriting my memories, essentially shutting down the trauma in my own mind so it no longer existed. She wasn't content to have me wring those words from you; she wanted me to be forced to reconcile the aftermath of it as well. Eurus had already deduced that you loved me."

At this, Molly winced, though Sherlock took no notice, too caught up in his explanation. "I'm certain she knew your part in my jump off Bart's, along with a hundred other things that told her you had…feelings for me. She was witness to the fact that you came to John's therapist's house with no explanation or reason, simply because I had asked. I'm sure she saw the birth announcement for Rosamund, detailing you and me as godparents. She undoubtedly spoke with Moriarty about you and heard from him about your feelings for me." He paused before continuing.

"But more than that, she also saw that _I_ had called you to John's therapist's residence and that even John had identified you as the person to contact on my behalf. She knew that I had chosen you to help me with arguably the biggest and most difficult case of my life when you helped fake my death. She saw that even though I claim to have no heart, the opposite is very clearly true. She recognized one of my soft spots – a pressure point if you will – as _you_ , when no one else saw you as such. She is so clever that she found out what no one else – including me – realized."

Molly felt like she couldn't take a deep breath and all she could do was stare at Sherlock. He was speaking in such a matter-of-fact manner and looked calmly back at her while her eyes roamed his face, looking for some sign that he was still under some kind of duress and being forced to say these things or perhaps he was in fact conducting some sort of experiment after all.

"What are you saying, Sherlock?"

"Eurus knew that I loved you before I did."

His words were followed by silence. He sat watching her, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, her hands enfolded in his – when that had happened, Molly wasn't sure.

"Molly?" Sherlock asked, dipping his head to look more directly in her eyes. He paused, eyes narrowed. "You don't believe me," he stated, apparently seeing the doubt in her eyes. "You think I'm lying?"

She swallowed and shook her head. "N-no…I don't think you're lying. But I don't believe you. I don't know what's going on – if it's that you've just finally cracked after a really shit year or if Eurus did her reprogramming thing on you…" she trailed off and shook her head again, at a loss.

Sherlock took a breath in through his nose, lips pursed in a frown as he sat back slightly. His eyes didn't leave hers and she got the impression he was rolling the conundrum of her disbelief around in his head, trying to figure out how best to approach it anew. His hands came up to his mouth and he rubbed his lips absently as his eyes became unfocused. A moment later, his eyes once again fixated on Molly, gaining an intense look as his mouth turned up in a small smile.

"If my words won't convince you, perhaps my actions will."

With that, he slowly brought his hands up to her face. One hand wrapped around the back of her neck while the other came up to her cheek. He paused a moment and his thumb stroked her cheek as the hand on her neck pulled her to him. She had imagined kissing Sherlock countless times before and had always thought he would be somewhat uncertain and timid, but his mouth slanting over hers was firm with no hesitation. He immediately deepened the kiss, pulling himself closer to her on the sofa. His hands surrounded her and subtly guided her head to the side, allowing him better access. It was like no kiss she'd ever had and she opened up to him despite the slight warning sounding somewhere deep in the back of her mind.

The hand at her neck moved forward to cup her jaw while his other moved to her waist, his arm wrapping around her to pull her even closer. "Molly," he breathed into her ear before kissing down to her neck. He stayed there mere moments before returning to her lips, his tongue invading her mouth and exploring. She felt his hands caress her waist through the thin fabric of her worn t-shirt and wanted nothing more than to feel his fingers on her bare skin.

Her own hands went to his face, her fingers tentatively touching his cheek and neck. She could feel the stubble there and a primal ache went through her, wanting to feel that roughness against her neck, her breasts, her thighs. With no one else had she felt such urgent, intense, pure want. It alarmed her, and it was that that had her pulling back. A thrill went through her as Sherlock growled in frustration and brought his hand back to her jaw in an attempt to pull her back to him.

Molly put a hand on his chest and had to immediately fight the urge to curl her fingers into his body. "Sherlock…" she trailed off into a moan as Sherlock once again mouthed her neck. His tongue soothed the rough path left from his stubble, and she had trouble refocusing her efforts. "Sherlock, this isn't how this should go."

Taking another deep breath in through his nose, Sherlock released Molly and sat back slightly on the couch, though she noticed not far enough to completely break contact with her. Opening his eyes, he fixed her with a heavy gaze though didn't speak for a long moment.

"Was that not good?"

"No! No, it was good…very good!" Molly exclaimed before catching the roll of Sherlock's eyes as she realized that wasn't what he had been asking. "Oh…erm, I mean, you can't just go from saying 'I love you' to snogging me in the course of five minutes." She thought for a moment. "Come to think of it, you haven't even really said it."

"Yes, I did."

"No, you didn't."

"I said it on the phone."

"That doesn't count!" Molly exclaimed. "You said it under duress, and you said it because you knew you had to in order for me to say what you needed me to."

"Not the second time."

Molly had opened her mouth, ready to protest whatever his comeback was but was brought up short by his reply.

Sherlock continued, "I said it twice. You told me to say it, and I did. Repetition was unnecessary, but I said it again."

Her mind cast back to the conversation that had been playing in her head since the call.

" _I-I…I love you." A pause. And then with more feeling, "I love you."_

She looked at Sherlock, eyes wide. Goosebumps rose on her arms.

Seeing her reaction, Sherlock smiled again with the same weighty look he had earlier. He moved forward and his hands once again came to cup her face. She felt his thumbs stroke her cheeks as he gently lifted her face to his.

"I love you, Molly Hooper."

 _Okay, there it is! I've thought about continuing on because I'd love to write more of Sherlock and Molly's happy (and sexy!) times, but I think it works to leave this as it is. I wanted to explore both of their reactions and feelings after the hugely emotional scene in TFP and have done that._

 _Thank you for reading – please drop me a line in a review!_


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